


The Holy Dark Was Moving Too

by megyal



Category: Constantine (Comic), Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-03
Updated: 2007-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Devils, Angels and cracking a safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
_I've heard there was a secret chord  
That David played, and it pleased the Lord  
But you don't really care for music, do you?  
-"Hallelujah", Jeff Buckley._

When the First of the Fallen came to the office, Greta tried to breathe shallow; but no, the First did not come accompanied with a strong smell of sulpur. He smelled like L'eau D'Issey. Strange. And he _did_ look like a taller version of Pete. With a sharper sense of fashion, more Armani, less sharp weird colours. Greta inhaled deep.

"Hello," The First smiled sweetly, and Greta wondered that if he would be the one to torture her if she ended up in hell. Probably not. "I'm looking for a safecracker. I heard you guys have the best."

The First of the Fallen, most powerful lord of hell, sounded like he came from Scotland. Lovely brogue.

"Ahhmmm," Greta began, brushing at her blonde waves. John had said the First might show up. She had expected horns, and a tail. (Maja had been strident at this idea.

"Don't be foolish! If the devil comes to you, he comes as beauty, not as darkness. Don't you know that?"

Patrick had been scornful. Pete hadn't. Patrick said it was a good thing he was an atheist anyway. Or used to be. Whatever.)

"Well, my dear?" The First prodded gently. The iris of his eyes shone a deep muted ruby, and Greta felt numb.

"They're not in right now," Greta managed. "Will you come back later?"

The First smiled appraisingly, and then nodded, smoothing at his silk tie.

"That I will, lass."

*

John had pinched Patrick on the cheek when he first came into the office and disparagingly declared him "cute". Patrick had glared at him, and John had turned towards the annoying laugh Pete made as he came out of the inner office; John's eyes had widened slightly.

"Anyone ever tell you to go t'hell, Mr. Wentz?" John Constantine asked low, lighting a cigarette despite Greta's feeble protests. Pete snickered.

"All the time."

"You might catch a break when you actually do, mate," Chas put in helpfully, pocketing the car-keys and eyeing Patrick's hat with deep interest. Patrick glared at him too, and then gave up and went to lean against Greta's desk. She sighed and moved the map of Ancient Rome she had been studying. "You look a lot like the First."

"The first what?" Pete smiled idly, picking up a charmed toothbrush they had found in Budapest (gave the brusher an awful case of gum disease). Maja came from out the inner office as well, pulling down the hem of her skirt, no sign of a blush, as Greta would have if it had been her in that office with Pete.

"The Devil...or one of them, anyway," John replied, taking the toothbrush and peering at it as Patrick laughed snidely. John quirked his eyebrow. "What. You don't believe in the devil, mate? Here's a little note: He fuckin' believes in you."

"What is it you want, Mr. Constantine, Mr. Chandler?" Patrick ground out, trying to ignore the speculative way John was peering at Pete. "We deal in retrieving weird objects. What's your deal?"

"So how is it you blokes are safecrackers here, if you deal in retrieving weird objects?" Chas asked, neatly sidestepping the question with his own and poking John in the side. John looked back at him slyly, blowing smoke out through his nostrils.

"Oh, sometimes the weird objects are locked up tight, and we need to convince them to come with us," Pete waggled his eyebrows charmingly. Patrick tried to stifle his gagging sounds. "Patrick convinces them soft. I convince them hard. And by hard, I mean explosives."

"We want the soft way. And these lovely ladies?" Chas continued, blatantly trying to peek down Maja's shirt. Maja blatantly tried to give him a better view.

"Secretaries," Patrick replied as Pete put in with: "Distractions."

"I see," Chas said as Pete waggled his own wallet in front of him. "Distractions indeed."

"SO. The First, that pisspot, might show up here to get you to break into a safe. But I fuckin' asked you first, see?" John smiled dangerously and Patrick rolled his eyes as Pete tried on his own perilous leer. "And I'll pay you good, me fine little lambs."

"How much?"

"Let me see...the secrets of life and death?"

"That'll work."

*

"I don't know what Mr. Constantine told you," said the tall dark-haired...person, standing at Pete's office door, and yelling slightly. Pete scrunched his face at them. "But don't you dare open that safe."

"And you are?" Patrick said, trying to shove into the inner office past the long lithe figure of the stranger dressed in blue. They smelt...airy.

"Remiel. Archangel."

"Never heard of you," Maja pointed out haughtily from her perch on the arm of Pete's chair, and Remiel gave her a withering look.

"Right. You always hear of the Big Bad Trio, Gabriel, Michael, Raphael, but nobody knows about the other four," Remiel snorted in self-deprecation, brushing back a long dark lock of hair and revealing a pierced ear. "All the dirty work."

"That's too bad," Patrick said in soft understanding. Pete was a bit of a limelight stealer, too. Asshole. Pete smiled brilliantly and Remiel grinned back, and then scowled. Maja put her feet up on her desk, slim pale legs gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light.

"But like I was saying," Remiel said again, louder than before. "Don't open that safe."

"Are you going to stop us?" Greta asked, worrying at the frilly lace at the neckline of her dress. Remiel looked thunderous, dark eyebrows drawing in.

"No. I shan't. Freedom of choice and all that rot. Damn it," Remiel snorted, and then gave a watery smile. "But can I appeal to your sense of humanity?"

"No," purred Maja. "I'm afraid you can't, lover. We have no humanity."

"And Pete has no sense, so it works out," Greta said with great demureness.

Remiel drew themself up regally (Patrick was still trying to ascertain their gender) and flashed out of the office, half-snarling.

*

Pete stood at the front door of the old crumbling mansion, and pondered the heavy front door. He stepped back and mumbled, and paced back and forth as Patrick watched him patiently, hitching at his backpack. John lit a match to a cigarette.

"Just break the fuck in already, and stop the fuckin' nattering, you wanker," John growled out, and inexplicably lit another cigarette and poked it in Patrick's mouth. Patrick sputtered, but still inhaled. Pete took it from him, took a couple of puffs, and then bent and picked up the key from under the mat. He opened the door, smirking. The entry-hall was sufficiently gloomy, even with the large searchlamp that Chas had, and Pete was enjoying the Dusty Atmosphere. And holding John's hand. Patrick grimaced.

"What are we taking out of here?" Patrick asked, and Chas waved his hand in the air unconcernedly as they began to climb the large swooping staircase.

"Oh. The Voice of God."

Patrick tried hard not to huff in disbelief. After all, he was an atheist. Who might or might not have had a conversation with an archangel.

"And what is the Voice of God doing in this old house in the middle of Chicago?"

Chas and John stopped and pondered this one out.

"For safekeeping?"

"Oh. Yeah," Patrick agreed faintly. "That's a really good reason."

Pete stalked into a bedroom and squealed. Patrick was already sprinting to his rescue before he discovered that Pete was actually getting excited over a bat-patterned bedsheet. He left him with a solidly punched gut, and it took them fifteen more bedrooms, one large bathroom (Pete went crazy over the claw-foot bath-tub) before they got to the room which held a large grey safe, standing by itself omniously in the middle of the room.

"Oh, now you're gonna get to see the genius at work," Pete whispered in excitement, and Chas sat beside Patrick as he took his tools out his backpack. Chas held the light carefully for him.

"Are you gonna listen to the safe?" Chas asked excitedly and Patrick shook his head.

"That takes too long. I have to drill it," Patrick answered dully, feeling suddenly exhausted, like he always did before a job. He kneeled before the safe and looked at it carefully, and then decided that he could drill at a downward angle from the face of the door to its interior, making a hole from above the combination lock to the wheel-pack inside the door. Now Pete and John were breathing down his neck as well, but he didn't mind. Fuck, he was a professional. The diamond-tipped drill-bit dug imperiously into the hard surface of the safe, and Pete pressed his hand in the small of Patrick's back, hot and reassuring as usual.

Hole drilled, Patrick took out his little fibreoptic camera and poked through it, smiling a little as the wheelpack of the door came up on his tiny screen.

"This is the easy part," Patrick said, a little uncomfortably, because, as usual, Pete was trying to cop a feel. He always did this; said it made the moment more _exuberant_. Patrick thought that Pete wasn't too sure of the meaning of the word _exuberant_ to use it in that manner, but he still got a little hard by the hand on his ass as he coaxed the wheelpins to fall into place.

"Done."

Pete tilted his head.

"Are we supposed to hear a heavenly chorus, or something?"

John rolled his eyes and reached for the handle.


	2. Chapter 2

_well it goes like this the fourth, the fifth  
the minor fall and the major lift  
the baffled king composing hallelujah  
-"Hallelujah", Jeff Buckley_

Maja was giving the object on Pete's desk a wide-eyed glare. Pete rested his chin on her shoulder and dug it in a bit.

"So," she said, snapping gum noisily. "The Voice of God. Is a _guitar_."

Patrick made a face.

"Yeah. It's a Gibson Les Paul. Solid body electric," Patrick clarified and Maja looked disapproving, twirling the ends of her hair around one long red talon, almost jabbing Pete in the eye. Greta only appeared resigned.

"So we're to keep it here? Suppose the...the First comes for it?"

"I'm actually hoping he will," John said, fussing with a lighter and then putting it in one pocket of his trench-coat. "I have a proposition for him."

Patrick stared at him in sheer incredulity and John gave him a deeply speculative look. Chas tried to talk loudly to Greta, but Patrick's strident voice overruled them.

"What do you mean, a _proposition_? What the hell are you up to?"

John gave him a smug sideways smile, but it was Chas who answered.

"A client of ours needs a favour. The First wants the Voice...so it's an even trade."

"Look," said Pete, sliding his hands down the slim length of Maja's back as if Patrick couldn't see him doing it, right here in front of everyone, "I'm not really that deep into this whole _thing_ , but I'm thinking, and just stop me if I'm totally wrong here, but isn't the Voice of God sort of powerful? And isn't it giving it to the Devil just the worst idea _ever_?" Pete paused for drama. "And why is it a _guitar_?"

Chas gave him a small brittle smile, as if he was a lecturer and Pete had made a good point from the back of the classroom. Remiel answered from the open office door.

" _'In the beginning, God sang everything alive.'_ " Remiel strode over and looked down at the faintly shabby instrument. "Wow. A guitar. The last human who found it got a carnival whistle. I really have no idea why." Remiel looked closely at everyone without seeming to concentrate on one person. "Who broke the seal?"

Everyone pointed at Patrick, whose face grew quietly venomous. Remiel rolled their eyes.

"Okay, cute little cherub, just a word of advice? Yield not. Got it?"

Remiel turned and stomped off through the office. Patrick pulled at his hair and let out a little shriek.

"The next person that calls me _cute_ ," he spat, "Will find my foot lodged in their ass. I mean it."

***

Patrick, of course, got the 2 am to 5 am shift in guarding the Voice and he bitched for a full ten minutes when Chas got off his turn. Chas flapped his hands at him and staggered upstairs, where a few bedrooms had been installed over the office. John, after he had cryptically told them to not really take Remmy's advice ( _Remmy_?!), had sauntered into the bedroom that was usually Pete's; avoiding Patrick's stony gaze, Pete had uncharacteristically blushed, stammered something about being completely tired and had dashed up after him.

Patrick glared at the Voice; it lay on Pete's miraculously tidy desk, innocuous, plain. Patrick would have sworn that the Voice would have been a gilded harp, with a spotlight thrown on it and some choral humming in the background. And he personally thought the Gibson in front of him was far too plain; couldn't God have had a custom-built Voice?

As it was, his fingers were still itching to stroke the strings, maybe even tune it; it was sure to be out of tune, sitting in an old dusty weird mansion, locked up in a safe. For no reason. He used to have a guitar like this one, but Pete had traded it with someone for information, so it was a long time he had played.

"So play," the man who was suddenly sitting across from him said warmly, steepling his fingers together and tapping his index fingers against his bottom lip. The resemblance to Pete was incredible; a tall suave Pete.

"No." Patrick was _so_ proud of how steady his voice was. "Are you the First?"

"Of course I am, Patrick," The First answered, shifting so that he rested one elbow on the desk, right next to the guitar, and propped his chin on top of his hand, still smiling at Patrick. "But the First is such a formal title. For you, I will expect you to call me Luthier."

Patrick blinked at him.

"But...I thought your name was Lucifer..."

Luthier's face took on a chilly hue and Patrick sat back in Pete's comfy office chair.

"That half-assed--" There was a momentous struggle and Patrick tried to press himself further in until Luthier grew calm again. He blinked and Maja was sitting in front of him.

"But let's forget about that, Patrick." Luthier breathed in Maja's throaty tones, tossing her head back and looking at him with half-lidded eyes. "Don't you want to play the guitar? I'm sure you do."

"I'm pretty sure I don't," Patrick said firmly, and was not surprised to find Greta leaning on the side of the desk, giving him her small knowing smile.

"Why not? It's just a guitar. I'm sure it's out of tune too. Shame. No guitar should ever be out of tune."

Patrick smiled sweetly and shook his head. Greta was gone from in front of him and a hand slid down the back of the chair and touched lightly on his shoulder. Patrick was feeling pretty smug until a very familiar voice muttered in his ear.

"Go on," Pete said, his lips brushing against the soft curl of Patrick's ear. "I know you want to. I'll do something special for you if you just tune it."

"You're not Pete," Patrick whispered, shuddering a little despite his negations. There was a small chuckle and Pete came around the chair, climbing into his lap and biting at his bottom lip; it wasn't something Pete normally did, but it looked so endearing on him. Pete tapped the brim of his hat, sheer mischief pooling in his dark eyes and he leaned forward, brushing the tip of his nose against Patrick's. It was all so _sweet_.

Patrick was lost. Pete wriggled in his lap and pressed down on Patrick's growing erection, giggling.

"I'll help. You have to pick it up, though. No one can touch it now but you."

Patrick reached slowly around Pete's slim frame, feeling the insides of his arms brush against the material of Pete's battered cotton shirt, one of many plain white ones he liked to wear under his outside shirts. He picked up the guitar, it was far too light for its make, and drew it close. Pete crowded up more into his chest, murmuring something too low for Patrick to hear.

"Patrick?" A voice came from the door and Patrick saw another Pete standing and gaping at them, John Constantine towering right behind him. No; the _real_ Pete. "Patrick, what--"

"Hey, there," John said conversationally. "Before he plays for you, can I get something?"

Luthier leaned his head against Patrick's shoulder, kitten-like and pliant and Pete stared at them both from the door. Patrick couldn't help but grin toothily.

"Ask. Maybe you will."

Patrick didn't know how Luthier managed to inject sheer _sex_ into Pete's voice like that, but he was pretty sure it beat out the original. His heart felt coldly gleeful at the way Pete's face went totally blank, a sure sign of internal seething. He _loved_ it.

"There's this daughter of a mafia-boss somewhere in your turf. He wants her out of there, escorted to heaven, blah-blah-blah. Patrick plays for you, you let her go, deal?"

Luthier's mouth was now against Patrick's neck and he sighed.

"Patrick plays for me and gives me the Voice. I let the D'angelo girl go. Deal." A pink flash as there was a small touch of tongue to Patrick's neck and Pete made a small choking noise. Patrick hefted the guitar and stroked his thumb lightly over the strings, barely touching them. There was an accompanying tremor in the ground, lightning snapping pictures outside. The Pete in his lap chuckled.

"How do I do this?" Patrick asked, not feeling nervous at all.

"Don't you know? Every note is a manifest desire. You play what you want. You could have anything." Pete pressed his forehead against Patrick's, dislodging his hat and then rolled his head to look at the impassive Pete still standing at the door. "Anyone."

"Anytime?" Patrick asked, breathless now. Pete leaned back against John.

"Anywhere."

Patrick touched the guitar again, plucking at the fourth string, hearing the solid calmness of D resonate through the room. John held onto Pete's arms as he went rigid in the doorway, gasping. At the note of the first string, Pete re-opened his eyes and looked at Patrick with warmth. Luthier laughed.

Patrick went still, feeling the extended heated gaze that Pete was giving him from the door. This _was_ really his heart's desire, something he wanted for almost as long as he knew Pete, the reason why he allowed Pete to take his guitar, to take his breath away whenever he saw him.

This was what he could have. Forever, if he wanted.

The Voice vanished from his hands right after he struck a chord that was bitter in its dissonance; John and Luthier made matching cries of dismay.

"Oh my god," Pete murmured and Luthier swore at him.

"The girl stays. Constantine, I would look into the company you keep," Luthier spat, his limbs now far too long for Patrick's lap. He clambered out, smoothed down the lapels of his suit and without warning leaned forward and gave Patrick a hard biting kiss on the mouth. "I'll see you sometime."

"Sorry, John," Patrick muttered as The First stalked out, not really sorry at all. John shrugged, rolling his eyes. "I mean. I couldn't. Not like that."

"I suppose," John said, giving Pete a chaste kiss on the cheek. "There are other means, that was just the easiest. And the Mafioso will pay me for more days. Coming to bed, Peteski?"

"Give me a minute," Pete said faintly and Patrick gave his own hands a thorough inspection. John's feet were quick and heavy on the stairs, almost drowning out Pete's sigh. "How close was _that_?"

Patrick didn't answer.

"Where did you send it?"

Patrick pursed his lips. "To where it was needed next. Fuck it, _I_ don't know. Ask Remmy. I don't care, either."

"You don't."

"Go to bed, Peteski," Patrick said flatly and made sure not to move as Pete hovered by the doorway and then turned away in silence.

 _fin_

 _'In the beginning, God sang everything alive.'_  
-taken from The Blessing Seed: A Creation Myth for the New Millennium  
by Caitlin Matthews, Alison Dexter (Illustrator)


End file.
